Cooperation Lost in Translation
by Socrates7727
Summary: Translator Draco, Auror Harry Potter, courtroom drama, written for the IWSC season 2, round 2!


AN I don't own HP or any of the characters! Written for the IWSC Season 2, Round 2!

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**Story Title: **Cooperation Lost in Translation

**School and Theme: **Mahoutokoro - Department for International Magical Cooperation

**Main Prompt: **[Setting] Wizengamot

**Additional Prompts: **[Color] Maroon, [Genre] Crime (represented in courtroom drama and trial)

**Year: **Two

**Wordcount: **2472

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Draco scowled as he poured the black coffee into his work mug. It was the only green dish in the entire office—it was the only _non-red_ dish in the office, actually, because everything else was stamped with the new and reformed Ministry logo—but he liked it. He'd managed to escape an Azkaban sentence—albeit a short one—by taking on 'community service' hours. Somedays, it seemed like the better deal and, somedays, it didn't.

Honestly, he didn't hate working for the Ministry as much as he'd thought he would. Translating wasn't particularly difficult for him, usually, and he liked having a way to keep his French up now that the courts had issued a no-contact order between convicted, former Death Eaters.

It was nice, usually, to had something that could keep him busy during the day. Besides, he'd been earning a little bit of leniency within the Ministry and Merlin knew he needed every scrap he could get. Most of them—especially the Aurors—still hated him, but they couldn't do much besides glare because Draco was legitimately good at his job.

Sure, there were things that he wouldn't have chosen, or that he didn't particularly enjoy about the position. He was in no way the only person who could speak French in the Ministry nor the only translator so, naturally, he was given the jobs that no one else wanted. Petty Apparition disputes always ended up on his desk—exclusively—right alongside the particularly ugly Magical Creature cases that no one else wanted to get involved with. They were usually small cases, though.

No one wanted to base the outcome of an important court case on the translations of a Death Eater. Nothing he did was ever particularly important or ground-breaking, and he honestly didn't think it ever would be. That was fine, though, because he was comfortable in his mediocrity.

Until now, his largest protest against the ever-spinning cogs of the Ministry machine had been his green mug. On his desk, beside the usual stack of sickly, bruise-colored envelopes, sat a thick, creamy burgundy envelope of a court summoning. Realistically, it was nothing special. After all, less than three inches from where it lay was a stack of similar court summons—they were basically his job's form of assigned cases—but he still hesitated. They'd never been this thick before, though, and the scarlet paper felt significant. It was real—the color the new, reformed Ministry claimed as its own—and not some off-colored misprint. Was this from the central office?

Curiosity got the better of him. Ignoring the stack of simple, small assignments, He opened it, feeling the sheer _weight_ of the embellished papers inside, and skimmed the summary of the report.

It was a big case.

The very first page, clipped to the inside of the cover, was a personal, handwritten letter from Kingsley himself requesting his services. Immediately, that felt weird. It'd never been a request before because this job was his form of community service—he didn't get a choice in the matter. But he'd been personally requested and, as Draco began to look over the details, he only became more confused as to why.

It was a _big _case.

The approximate court dates stretched out over weeks, with the potential for months of testimonies and depositions. It wasn't in any of the tiny Ministry courts that Draco had become so familiar with over the last year, either. It was in front of the Wizengamot. The very same collection of witches and wizards who had sentenced his father to Azkaban, and him to this job. He didn't understand why he'd been singled out for this case. The only thing the letter offered as an explanation was that he was wanted for his 'specialty'—which was ridiculous because French wasn't niche or unique in any way.

But, as he began to read through the redacted version of the report, he understood. The case was centered around an unnamed defendant's use of dark magic, which wasn't unheard of. It was _really _dark, though, and it was ancient—the kind of thing his family had kept books of hidden deep in the darkest corners of the Manor. And, as he read, he began to fully understand.

The issue wasn't that the Dark magic was of French origin, or that it was described in French—albeit vaguely. it was that the magic was old and obscure—probably with absolutely no documentation or record left over—and it was described _wrong_. Or, even worse, some of the spells and rituals were what Draco considered, in his expert opinion, to be untranslatable. If there were English equivalents, he'd never heard of them.

There were forms from the French ministry of Magic—superficial ones, at first, agreeing to the trial of a French wizard in Britain because that was where the majority of the crimes had taken place and where the defendant had been apprehended. Then, there were documents agreeing to the use of a Ministry translator, along with plenty of dark magic experts. Behind that, there was the paperwork from the Ministry agreeing to the same things. He noted that the lead Auror on the case—and thus the Prosecution's main witness and prosecutor—was Harry Potter.

Of course it was.

But, after the case report, he found the handwritten statement of request. Potter had been the one to ask for him by name, and Granger's signature was there on the page too. They argued that he was the most well-versed in the dark magic itself and in both languages—which he was—but how would they have known that?

Regardless, it wasn't really a request so he signed the necessary paperwork, sent it back to Kingsley, and began preparing.

* * *

On day one of the trial, the Wizengamot was decked out in complementary shades of crimson and scarlet. It felt very 'Gryffindor' and Draco knew it was the color that symbolized Granger's new, reformed Ministry but it still felt distinctly unwelcoming and threatening. He was walking into the lion's den, even if it was just as a translator.

Draco could physically _feel _the tension between the defendant's French legal team (or at least the French members of it) and Potter's prosecution team. The Defense argued that the trial shouldn't be happening, and that it should have been tried in France because the defendant was a French national. On cue, the Prosecution reminded the jury that it didn't matter, because they were already at trial in Britain.

For the majority of the depositions and such, Draco resigned himself to just listening and observing. It was entirely in English and the French legal team had brought in their own translator so he just watched the court proceedings, though he eavesdropped a bit on the side.

Between testimonies, he made note of the translation errors and choices the Defense made that he wanted to bring up with the Wizengamot when he was called, briefly, as a witness.

* * *

By the third week of the trial, Draco felt like he was drowning in the blood-colored tapestries and upholstery. Everything felt fake and insincere because the Ministry was only reformed on the surface, though Granger was working incredibly hard to change that. It had yet to actually change, though, and Draco wasn't holding his breath.

Finally, they began to get to the testimonies from the French speaking witnesses. Draco translated perfectly and fairly. He'd charmed a quill to write down the spoken French word for word for the court's records, as was custom, but he never needed to refer back to it. After all, he was good at his job.

But, in between, when he was just sitting in the benches and waiting, he found himself wandering. It was easy to be distracted by the feeling of so many accusatory eyes on his back, and he made an effort not to think about it for long. So many people in that room had wanted to see him rot in Azkaban…

There were other ministry translators there—both for the sake of accuracy, and to dispel worries about his criminal background—but none of them corrected or interrupted him, even the ones that he knew for a fact hated him. A few had looked like they'd wanted to, but they'd glanced to Potter and miraculously changed their minds. Draco tried not to question it.

None of the proceedings felt significant, really, until the morning of _his_ testimony. He wasn't nervous—Malfoys were never nervous—but he'd spent ten minutes looking at ties already and hadn't made any progress. Glancing at the clock, he ended up picking the burgundy one with a golden snake on it. Gryffindor-y, and yet still kind of Slytherin. Maybe it was symbolic, or maybe he was just nervous and grasping at straws. He wore it, though.

The Prosecution questioned him first. He approached the stand and readied himself for softball questions but _Merlin_… The feeling of being back in that witness chair was enough to send him into a panic. The last time he'd sat there, he'd given the testimony that had sent his father to Azkaban for life.

Harry grounded him. Draco wasn't sure how and he was still fuzzy on the details but, one minute he'd been hyperventilating to himself, and the next he'd been eloquently answering questions with his eyes locked on those emerald rings. The questions were basic and easy to answer, which was the goal. He described the rituals and the spells as accurately as possible, translating where necessary for both the Defense and the Prosecution, but his eyes never left Harry's.

Then, the Defense was questioning him. It was going by surprisingly fast and he reasoned that his testimony wasn't that significant so it wasn't taking long. Harry held his gaze, though, and Draco kept answering. This was his job, after all, and he'd been prepped for this. The first question right out of the gate was a request for him to show his left forearm.

He did it.

No one gasped, but Draco still felt the oxygen evaporate from the air as witches and wizards he'd never met stared at the mark burned into his forearm. He squirmed, but held Harry's eyes. As they gawked at it, the Defense reminded the Wizengamot that they'd convicted Draco not even two years ago. He was hyper aware of their eyes on him, weighing his sins.

Harry grounded him, though.

"With all due respect, councilman, what does my judicial history have to do with my ability to speak French?" The question was stricken from the record but he could see it resonating with many of the stern, judgemental faces staring down at him. This was good. At his own trial, they'd all stared back at him with completely blank expressions and they'd felt no sympathy. Maybe now was different?

"Do you, Mr. Malfoy, have any personal experience with this particular strand of ritualistic, French magic?" He'd been waiting for this question. Immediately, he straightened a little with confidence and looked his questioner in the eye.

"Yes, actually, I do." The man balked. He swallowed hard, glancing back at his team with a vaguely alarmed expression on his face. They hadn't asked about his experience with this magic in the predeposition or in any of the preliminary research inquiries, and he'd merely not brought it up. Some might call it lying by omission, but the Prosecution called it convenient.

"Would you care to elaborate on that?" And, for the first time since coming back into the Wizengamot, Draco found himself actually wanting to answer the question. He explained easily how the dark magic was an extension of old life force rituals and how Narcissa had used the more positive pieces of it since he was a child. He'd never dabbled in the darker sides of it, of course, but he'd seen it done by other family members from his father's side. The Defense was scrambling, trying to find anything solid to stand on.

"So you could be lying and the only person who would know was the defendant?"

"No, actually. My mother, Narcissa, would know." And that's where Draco felt the trial turn permanently in their favor. Working with one former Death Eater was already taboo, but _two_? That was practically unheard of.

The Prosecution called Narcissa to the stand and, due to her political isolation and restricted contact with Draco, her memories and her testimony were virtually unquestionable. She actually knew more about the rituals than Draco had, and had corrected the record wherever necessary.

Hermione had had to pull so many strings to let Narcissa testify. It'd been easier to work and cooperate with the French Ministry, honestly, even if the actual French legal representation didn't share the same sentiments. But, as Draco ventured out more into the 'real world,' that seemed to be the case everywhere.

On a grand scale, Ministries and departments were more than willing to work together and share responsibilities. But, on a more individualized level, people still spat at Draco's dark mark and called Narcissa a nonviable witness. On a more individual level, he was still hated at work because he was a different kind of outcast that a mere language barrier couldn't explain away.

They won the trial.

It wasn't a surprise to anyone involved, and they'd heard the unofficial victory days before a verdict was actually returned, but it was still good news. Everyone who'd been involved was encouraged to celebrate, and Draco was even given the rest of the week off. Even if it was only so he wouldn't be paid overtime, he appreciated the break.

He hadn't anticipated someone clad in scarlet robes to approach him, or for that person to be Harry Potter. A clap on the back or a word of appreciation was customary, he realized, but he hadn't thought things like that applied to him as well. Harry did neither, though, and instead invited him out for drinks after work.

The Gryffindor wanted to learn to swear in French. He laughed and teased Draco like they were friends—which, last he'd checked, they weren't—but Draco accepted the invitation nevertheless. Tired or not, he didn't want to be hated and shunned for an actual, valid reason like turning down the Savior.

It would be exactly like the French Ministry, his mind assured him. They would talk of cooperation and teamwork publicly but they would bicker and undermine each other in a more private setting. He approached the pack of Aurors after work with his guard up and his wand in his sleeve.

But, shockingly enough, they seemed to accept it. It was done grudgingly on the part of a few specific Aurors, he could see, but they all did it just like the other Ministry translators had in front of the Wizengamot. Draco let himself be absorbed into the swarm of red robes as they headed for the floo network.

Maybe cooperation wasn't always fake.

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Thanks so much for reading!


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